Day 16

Bill Gates and the Carnival.

Curse you Bill Gates, why have you foresaken me?  After several paragraphs of what was to be today's post, internet explorer took a poop in a jar and I lost it the whole nine yards.  Oh well, the writing was a bunch of crap anyway.  I really do this more for my own gratification than anything else.  I don't know that it is necessarily informative or entertaining to anyone else and I don't really care.  The cold truth of the matter is that anyone who would write one of these things is a self absorbed jackass anyhow.  Like anyone really needs to read paragraph upon paragraph about the exploits of a balding, unemployed, middle aged jerk-off who clearly married up.  Holy shit, I just had the realization that I'm not Jack Butler . . . I'm George Costanza.  Perhaps I should change the name . . .

Today was pleasant enough, I guess.  I had a really romantic soliloquy written about life in the city that was full of witticisims about child rearing, souldful Sunday afternoons and the meaning of life, but Bill Gates saw fit to wipe his ass with it and flush it down the toilette.  I am now left with an empty canvas, a broken spirit, and a possible computer virus that makes syphilus look like the common cold.  With no ink left in my pen, I think I might just call it a night.  No, I can't do that.  I wouldn't respect myself in the morning if I quit now.  Besides, my youngest child has decided that sleep is an overrated endeavor and is now on strike demanding better hours.  Since I am going to be up for awhile waiting him out, I may as well try to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Sunday is fast becoming my favorite day of the week.  Things slow down to a crawl.  No more kamakazie scooter jockies lane splitting their way through congested city streets leaving a two stroke yawl in their wake. No more rattle and hum from overwork diesel driven busses, and no more chatter from the pedestrian masses hustling their way to and from work.  It is quiet on Sunday.  It is almost an unsettling quiet, and I love it.  Now, I am well aware that I have thus far written romantic volumes about the adventure of it all, but the truth of the matter is that I am still just a good ole boy from the backwoods of the Ozarks Plateau and sometimes I need a little peace and quiet.  In fact, I find myself seeking out the back alleys and lesser traveled corridors of the city.  This is where you find the heart that beats within, this is where you find its soul.  Voices from an open window, the sound of a loose cobble beneath leather soled shoes,  the patter of a pigeon's wing as it comes to rest on it's perch . . .  The soft murmur from a nearby church, the distant sound of children at play . . . all culminating in the rhythm of a heartbeat.  This is the sound track of my life here and this is one of the things that I will never forget.

We didn't get too excited this morning.  We woke up when our bodies had recharged and set about the day in a leisurely fashion.  It was scrambled eggs this morning.  A time tested favorite, for this was to be my final attempt to get the youngest of our clan to eat anything other than a hot dog and ketchup ("dippy" he calls it).  It is his preferred meal for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  At present, he is on a three day bender.  Much to my relief, the eggs did the trick and he began to detox from the hotdog-a-thon we had been on over the course of the past 72 hours.  We had an errand to run, which gave us a good excuse to get out and stretch our legs a bit.  We ran down to the bank to activate our recently obtained debit cards.  With the push of a button, we were back to the modern age of banking.  And not a moment too soon I might add, because writing one of these checks is a mystery I have not yet solved.

After we concluded our banking, it was time for a quick round of tag with the boys in a tree lined park and then down to the waterfront for a stroll along the river.  We had been here before, but something seemed different.  Something was building . . . something that would soon break the quiet peace of my Sunday afternoon.  After a bit and with stomachs grumbling we started back for the hotel.  On our way back, we took a small detour through the Carnival that is in town.  The Carnival proper had yet to open, but the vendors were already in full swing.  The truth is, the food looked quite tempting and a departure from your usual Carni food.  No deep fat fried Snickers here.  Delicate pasteries and bagguette sandwiches as well as a candied apple that looked very appealing.  Doing our best not to lose any of our hard earned money to the gypsy hoard we decided to push on.  As we walked along, I now noticed that on nearly every street corner there was a balloon vendor selling their wares.  A bit strange I thought, but perhaps this is customary.  I mean really, who couldn't use a good balloon on a Sunday?

Nearly back at the hotel, the eldest professed his serious need for food.  We ducked into a little bakery, not even a block from our hotel, to order a bite to eat  Now ordinarily we fumble through the ordering process by leaning on the content of the private French lessons my wife received prior to our departure from the States.  Today I would be on my own.  I am overly proud to say that all this exchange took place entirely in French and much to my astonishment I don't even think the shop keeper pegged me for an "out of towner".  It was clear that my eldest son was surprised and impressed at my mastery of the language.  The latter has kept my chest puffed out for most of the day.  Back at the hotel it was a quick bite and a bit of X Box with the eldest while the youngest took a nap.

The peace of the afternoon was broken by a noticable increase in the noise coming from the street.  The street in front of our hotel was now barricaded.  I knew there wasn't that big of a Sunday balloon market to support that many vendors.  Something was clearly going on.  Within moments my phone rang.  Patricia on the other end.  Mystery solved.  Apparently the Carnival kicks off tonight and to celebrate that event, there is a street party that takes place near the city center.  There were people showing up by the van load.  Still seemed like a lot of people for what appeared to amount to a very short parade.  Our friend Pat went on to explain that this was also the Sunday before Ash Wednesday and that these two things culminated together to bring folks out in mass.  I think there is a pun in there somewhere.

I tried my best to wake the little one from his nap so we could go and join the festivities but it was to no avail.  It was just as well, for we have school tomorrow and the sleeping little brother eased the sting a bit  from the "no" that was summarily handed down when the inquiry came about returning to the Carnival to ride the spinning wheel of death.  I know that the dismissal of this request couldn't have been pleasant to hear, but it was equally distasteful to say.  The children have been quite good through all of this and they deserve a little bit of youthful entertainment.  So, against my better judgment, I have agreed to return to the Carnival later in the week so that the boys can get their fill.  To be perfectly honest, I am as excited to go as the boys because the names of the rides truly have me intrigued.  First stop?  SEXY DANCE!  The name still makes me laugh.